An Unexpected Visitor
by sphinx81
Summary: Theoden has an unexpected visitor. Can old family ties be reforged, or is all hope lost?


**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of Tolkien's work or his characters, I only play with them.

Theoden gets and unexpected visitor. Can old family ties be reforged, or is all hope lost?

* * *

"By all that is holy, girl, just go to sleep!" Fraela told her, tucking her in next to Eomer yet again. She'd insisted on sleeping next to him, the dark shadows of their still unfamiliarly massive rooms proving too much for her to bear. He always huffed and puffed and groaned and grumbled whenever she insisted on it, but they both knew he really didn't mind. Especially considering he was afraid too, though he never admitted it to anyone, save her and those times when he would find himself standing at her bed, claiming his room too "cold" to sleep in. Silly boy. Just because he had ten seasons to him and was four seasons older than her, it didn't make him all grown up yet. She didn't know why he was so loath to admit his fear of the dark. It wasn't so terrible a thing. 

But still, after Fraela leaves with a huff, snuffing out the candles and bidding them goodnight (though he doesn't hear her considering he's already asleep, his arm carelessly slung over her in the usual protective fashion), the gift of sleep still can't seem to find her. Tossing and turning, even waking him once with all her movement, she finally decides she needs to get out, away from the thoughts plaguing her mind.

Which is why she stands here now, the silent dark of the Great Hall oddly comforting, though the dying fire in the large hearth isn't helping the chill. Wrapping her robe about her to guard against the cold, she wanders around the edges of the hall, mind drifting to the last great event that occurred in it.

It has been at least year since Theodwyn's passing. Yet she remembers it as though it were yesterday; after committing her back into the earth so soon after her husband's turn had come, after the tears and dirges and flowers, after all had returned to the Meduseld for the feast and they'd subsequently left, she remained there, blending into the shadows on the sidelines. Even now, with the hall deserted, she still finds she can focus on nothing but her own thoughts. Too empty and overcome to think on anything but the tightness in her stomach and tears threatening to spill over and down her reddened cheeks, she comes to a stop in the dark corner of the hall, eyes studying the gold patterns of the interlaced horses dancing along the border of the tapestry in front of her. She vaguely recalls her brother pointing out the meaning of it, how it told of the throwing of Léod by the meara Felaróf. It proved far more beautiful than any of the tapestries that hung in her old home. But none of that matters now.

Slowly studying the rest of the tapestries lining the wall, she eventually makes her way to the opposite end of the room, next to the King's chair. Struggling to pull herself up onto the great, ancient seat on the dais next to the immense fireplace, she drapes her legs across one arm of the throne, letting herself lean back upon the other arm so that she sits cradled in its massive space. Yes, it is the _king's _chair. And yes, she should not have the audacity to make herself comfortable in that most royal of spaces. But it proves one of the few warm places left in this great drafty hall. Besides, no one's around to take heed.

They have only themselves now.

She hates how they treat them, she and her brother, as though they are too stupid to comprehend what's passed. Whispers in the dark, those solemn looks on their faces, the murmurs of pity. She needs no person's pity.

…_what shall they do now?_

_Such a tragedy…_

_To die so young…_

…_shhh! The children will hear, poor little souls…_

…_and her brother loved her dearly…_

_But he's quite oddly on in years now…son full-grown…_

_Speak not ill of the king, silly child!_

…_so innocent, without anyone…_

The sound of heavy footsteps on the stone floor quickly take her out of her thoughts, forcing her to immediately consider her current position. Moving as quietly as possible, she swiftly climbs down off the throne and moves to leave the hall, pressing her back to the wall as she attempts to make her wat out so that she is well hidden by the darkness. But she stops when she reaches the far end of the hall, seeing there's no way out of it without attracting his attention. Might as well stay still and wait it out.

After a few moments she sees him enter; there comes the king, alone and without his guard for once. In the year she has lived in this strange palace, she has seen him every so often, usually at supper, maybe sometimes when he ambles about the hall on business. Usually he is away, fighting the dark creatures of the east everyone whispers about. But she has never seen him when by herself, for her brother proves her constant company and shadow, refusing to let her out of his sight. After all, they only have each other now.

The king does not seem to notice her, so she remains in her place, watching as he picks it up from where it hangs in honor over the great fireplace next to the dais.

"Ah, _Gúthwinë_, you have served your master well," he murmurs as he carefully takes it down from the wall, tracing his fingers along the cool steel, admiring its glint in the soft glow of the embers as he grips the red leather-covered hilt. "But now you must go so that you may be kept safe for his son," he continues as he finally sheaths it, his hands lovingly caressing the intricately carved detail of the leather and bronze scabbard. Brow creasing in confusion at the scene in front of her, she's compelled to move closer, resulting in the sound of her sleeping gown unexpectedly rustling against the tapestry behind her. Suddenly, as though noticing her for the first time as she lingers in the shadows, he looks up, his clear grey eyes meeting her own. She swears she sees the tears sparkling on his cheeks, but he quickly turns away before she can dwell on such an odd thing. Realizing the awkward silence that settles between them, she falls back onto the rules of the court that their maid Freala has been teaching her as of late.

"Forgive me for…disturbing you, my lord," she calls out, bowing and making sure she does not trip over the long skirts of her sleeping gown. Oh, how she hates the cumbersome nature of the rotten thing! She should have had Fraela just let her sleep in her day clothes.

The king quickly spins around upon hearing this little voice, confusion in his eyes as he beholds this small creature, her head still bowed as she awaits his instruction. It should not be so! For was she not of his own flesh and blood, the daughter of a sister whom he'd loved the most? He can no more bear to hear her call him "My lord," than can to hear his own son address him as "My King." Family proves all left to him in these ever darkening times. And even now, that is slowly slipping away. No, he will not have this one address him as though he is a mere stranger.

"Look up at me, little one," he commands, his voice quiet but reassuring. She does his bidding almost immediately, causing him to suppress a sad smile. Theodwyn always maintained her children were raised with the utmost respect for law and land. And as usual, she has proven right. But these are not the things he sought to give them now; they need the care of a parent, not some distant king.

"You should not address me so!" he chides, though a weary smile comes to his face as he says it. Confusion washes across her face as she takes in his words. For has not Fraela told her to address her uncle as King, no matter what? Surely, her nurse would never lie to her. He has to be wrong. Either that or he does not feel the pride that comes along with being the leader of such a noble people. But if that proves true, then frankly, he simply doesn't _deserve_ to be king. Humph! To have such a man on the throne! Her confusion suddenly turns to anger as her thoughts reel on what she'd discovered.

"I should not call you 'Milord?'" she quickly retorts. "Why not?

"Because…"

"You are not the lord of these lands?"

"Aye, I am. Yet…"

"And are you not the protector of our homes, of our people?"

"It is true. But child…"

"Then you are King!" she replies, stubbornly tilting her head up and swiftly crossing her arms, eying him as though he is nothing more than a irritatingly petulant child. "You are the King!" she repeats. "…Or a liar!" she growls.

His eyes go wide at her words, though he's found himself fighting to suppress his smile. Such a proud child, containing a will of steel and iron! Many times he'd bore witness to that identical look from his own mother; she too had not suffered fools lightly. "For a fool is naught more then a waste of good flesh and bone," she'd often say, those clear grey eyes in their infinite wisdom looking as him as though they knew every thought of his mind, that fierce smile on her face he would love and admire to the end of her days. "No child of mine shall ever be a fool, nor will wit or will desert him," she'd continue, pulling him into her arms and kissing him upon his forehead. He'd been only around age of the child who now stood before him. But still, though it would be some years before he would fully comprehend them, he had taken those words to heart.

"You would do well to take more care with your words, Eowyn Eomund's daughter," he replies, voice becoming serious, thoughts moving back to the present as he makes his way to the dais. Sitting down upon the throne, he sets down the sword in its scabbard, resting it against the side of his seat. "You are a daughter of kings, little one, and with that comes great responsibilities," he continues

She still stands there at the far end of the hall, arms still crossed, eyes narrowed with distrust.

"Come," he says softly, hand outstretched in welcome and surrender. "Sit."

She does not go to him, choosing to remain still as stone, arms still crossed.

"Eowyn Eomund's daughter, I command you, come here. Do not tarry, child," Theoden continues, voice swiftly becoming solemn.

She still stands there, contemplating what will happen if she does not obey. Frankly, she has no idea. But judging by the progressively more serious look in her uncle's eyes, she finds she does not wish to test that theory, at least not for the time being.

She slowly moves towards him, still stopping quite far from the edge of the dais, unsure of what to do next. He can see her distrust as she stands there stiffly, her suspicion making itself known in the way her eyes quickly flick over him and then flit over to the door, as though she's ensuring all avenues of escape will remain open should the occasion come to pass. Inwardly flinching at her reaction, he stands up, again offering her his hand. This one will be more difficult to win over. For while both children contain wills of steel and fire, this one looks to be less likely to suffer fools lightly.

"So much like your grandmother," he murmurs. He sees the suspicion fall from her eyes a bit as she nods in disagreement.

"Her hair…dark," she replies quietly, recalling her mother's tales. Even her brother knows that, for nana had not died until only a couple of years after her own birth. Almost an unnaturally long life she had lived, that one. But then again, she was not of this land, but rather Mundburg in the south.

"Aye, it is true," he replies, kneeling in front of her on one knee. His face is now level with hers. Odd, he does not look so scary when he is the same height as her. If anything, he looks oddly comforting. And though she doesn't know him, she gets the reassuring sense that he would never hurt her intentionally. Still, she must be on her guard…

"I know you fear me, Eowyn. It's to be expected considering you don't know me as well as you should. 'Tis my own fault, really. And I would do the same were I in your situation."

She's about to nod in disagreement, expecting that he would say something that's obviously not true. But she stops, quickly realizing he's said exactly what she's been thinking. Not that she'd admit her fear. There's no place for such weakness.

"It is not a weakness to fear the unknown, child," he continues.

"How can you read what I think?" she hears herself blurt out at the fact that he's been able to once again say what she feels in her heart. A small reassuring grin comes to his face at seeing her concentrating so hard.

"I don't know what runs through your mind little one," he says, standing and reaching out a hand to her. She obeys him this time, surprised to find his hands warm despite cold of the room as she comes to stand in front on him. "I simply know that this…must be a difficult time for you. It certainly is for me. I-I loved your mother," he murmurs, voice going quiet. "She was my sister after all, most beloved, her will strong as any steel forged by the fires of loyalty, fervor and compassion," he continues, having a difficult time getting the words out, trying his best to choke back the tears. He has to be strong for them. He cannot fail her now. "And I loved her as such," he continues. "She was a noble woman, full of strength and courage…just as her children are."

…_full of strength and courage…just as her children are._ The words echo in her head, causing her eyes to go wide, her mouth to open in barely contained shock. And then suddenly, without warning, it all comes flooding back; Mother, sitting in front of the fireplace, her soft hands quickly plaiting her hair even though she's never had the patience to sit still, the agonizingly lengthy 5-minute long process taking forever. Father, practicing in the courtyard, that beautiful sword in his hands, flying in the usual graceful arcs and circles that have always fascinated her. Mother, trying to bite back a laugh as her father scolds her for ripping up yet another smock beyond any hope of repair (it wasn't her fault Eomer dared her to climb the stables, stupid boy). Father, pulling her up onto his horse one last time, giving her a kiss on the cheek, the stubble of his beard scratching against her face he gives them both his usual mischievous wink, like he always does with her and Eomer whenever he leaves on a mission, promising to bring them all something back, but only if they behave and don't make too much trouble for their mother…

She will never see them ever again.

_Never_.

She feels dampness on her cheeks, eyes stinging, throat feeling tight, stomach lurching as the odd, muffled noises escape from her mouth, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. What is this? Why is her body reacting so strangely? They're just memories…

"Oh, child," she hears him say distantly, his own voice suddenly full of anxiety as the world goes black before her eyes.

His eyes goes wide in panic as she suddenly crumples to ground, her steady sobs increasing until they echo along the walls, the painful uninterrupted wails of utter grief and misery tearing at his heart, shredding at his mind. He rushes to her, easily picking her up and sweeping her into his arms with a firm embrace, even as she pounds against his chest in frustration, moving this way and that, trying shove him away and twist out of his grasp, but he refuses to let go, his own tears flowing freely as her wails fill the air.

"I will not abandon you Eowyn," he says resolutely, though she still cries, her face red and contorted into a tragic vision of heartache and pain, her breath coming out in bursts as she fights for control, her wails still tearing through the air.

"I will not abandon you," he says again, voice soothing but strong, rocking her back forth as he makes his way back to the throne, taking a seat and still rocking her back and forth as she struggles in his lap, her breath coming out in broken, guttural sobs.

What has he done? He should have been there from the beginning, ever-present as any parent is with their own children! Instead he has abandoned them, assumed their grief was theirs to solve and struggle through, leaving them to their own devices, save a paltry nurse to care only for their physical needs. An entire year! A year without one tear. A year without a mention of all that passed. A year without a whisper or any mark of grief. He has failed them. Most importantly, he has failed her and her husband. _Theodwyn, please forgive me! _he prays. _Forgive me for what I have failed to do. I beg of you, lend me the strength to follow my oath of fidelity, to raise these children as my own, to love them as even you do now. You would do the same for me without question, dearest sister. By all that is holy, allow me to do the same for you._

"You are my charge now, Eowyn Eomund's daughter," he breathes. "You and your brother are my charges. I will not abandon you!" he begs, voice cracking as he struggles to control to his own despair. "Please believe me, Eowyn!" She still weeps, her cries having quieted to muffled sobs, though her shoulders still shake.

"You are my children now, my family," Theoden murmurs, rocking her back and forth as her sobs begin die down. "I swear by all that is holy and good, I will not abandon you, may the gods take me!"

She's quiet now, shoulders still though she fights for breath, her chest heaving. She has stopped fighting him as well, for her damp face is buried in his shoulder, her arms around his neck as he continues his attempts to comfort her, rocking her back and forth. They sit like this for a while, the minutes flowing by, these two noble ones of the great House of Eorl at last coming to terms with the vast loss felt by them all.

"Forgive me…please forgive me," he hears her say whisper over and over again, her words muffled, for her face is still buried in his shoulder.

"There is nothing to forgive," he says. "Nothing to forgive at all," he continues as she gives a ragged breath and looks up from his shoulder. Her grey eyes are red from crying, but her mouth is steady, as is the rest of her. After a while, he reaches down and takes her hands in his, squeezing them in reassurance.

"We all must weep for the lost ones, Eowyn," he says, voice ragged but soft. "It is how we show we love and miss them. Do not ever ask forgiveness for showing such a thing, you hear me, lass?"

She nods stiffly at first, tears still rolling down her cheeks as she pulls a hand from his, wiping her face with the back of it.

"Grieving always has its place, so long as we do not dwell on it," He continues. "They would not want us to live in misery for their sake. So long we remember the hope and light they brought to us while they dwelled within the rings of this world, we will carry on, just as they do, waiting and praying for our happiness and triumphs until we meet them again."

"So I will see them again?" she whispers.

"Yes, but not for a long time, child." Her shoulders sag as she hears this news, causing him to quickly add, "But they see you, everyday. For they watch over you, as do all your ancestors. Their will to see you triumph against the darkness and despair is too much for anyone or any grief to break."

"Aye, then it is good," she replies after a while, eyes blazing with a newfound fire.

"It is good," he repeats. Suddenly she throws her arms around his neck, clutching him a fierce embrace, her grip tightening as though she fears he will slip through her fingers if she is to ever let go. Caught completely by surprise, he embraces her in turn, his heart at peace for the first time in weeks, his mind at rest, hope restored. He cannot bear to see the child in such misery, for her grief is his grief, her despair his own.

"May I stay here?" she questions, voice quiet as she looks up at him, eyes hopeful. How can he possibly deny her?

"Aye, you may."

"Will you stay as well?"

"Whatever you wish, Eowyn," he replies. Almost immediately, she makes herself comfortable, draping her legs across one arm of the throne, letting herself lean back upon the other arm so that she sits cradled in the space of his lap, her arms still about his neck. As her breathing steadies, her eyes close, sleep overtaking her. And for the first time in what seems an age of the earth, Eowyn, Eomund's daughter has finally found home.

From that point on, he is more than her king, but rather a father. Not that she will so quickly put aside the affections of Eomund. Rather, he will be proud to know his wife's brother takes up his duties where he cannot do so now. And such duty and love are worth more than all the Mearas in Arda.


End file.
